Roughly 50 years ago Marlon Brando and Sacheen Littlefeather were the first to inject a social justice warrior ethos into the annual Oscar telecast, which had been purely entertaining (i.e., unsullied by political opinion) since its inception in the late 1920s.

Their attempt to redirect Oscar attention from the Italian-American, amber-lighted legend of Don Corleone to the plight of struggling Native Americans was a ground-floor cultural ignition moment that, as Bill Maher put it last night, “transformed the Oscar telecast into what it is today — a four-hour lecture on how bad most people have it, by the people who have it the best.”

It was basically an acknowledgment of how progressive improvements always take a while to be adopted. It never happens with a snap of the fingers. Important people and powerful organizations are always late to dinner when a new dish is being served.

On the other hand Maher’s “Oscars, No White” rant, which focused on the announcement of Oscar representation and inclusion standards two and 1/3 years ago, had a little more bite.

Key quote: “Art and coercion is a bad combination. People don’t want to be hired because they filled the quota. They want to be hired because they’re good, and [many] of them are.”

Critical Drinker, three weeks ago:

“From a sensible center perspective, woke is a divisive and destructive ideology that aggressively pushes hardcore leftwing agendas into all aspects of entertainment while demonizing anyone who happens to be straight, white and male…undermining western cultural values, hijacking and destroying long-established characters and franchises and generally chipping away at everything that our culture is built on

“Raising awareness of social, cultural and environmental issues [obviously] isn’t a bad thing. Neither is encouraging people to look at the world for various perspectives. Or giving historically underrepresented groups a bit more visibility and attention. But pushing all of this stuff too hard, too aggressively or with ill intentions is having a damaging effect on modern entertainment…instead of encouraging people to broaden their minds and consider new perspectives, woke is basically about lecturing and browbeating them into making them think the way their creators want them to think…replacing one form of arrogant narrow-mindedness with a different one…instead of elevating marginalized groups, it’s insulting and demonizing everyone else….socio–political indoctrination with a thin veneer of entertainment wrapped around it.”

Please, God…please make something go horribly wrong on Sunday evening. Anything will do. As long as it upsets the applecart.

Yesterday (3.9) a Los Angeles Times story by Sammy Roth explained how thoughtless white commuters and city planners of yore have casually worsened pollution of the air breathed by low-income communities of color.

Would it be be fair to use the term “intentional racist pollution of lower-income Los Angeles air“?

“Many residents of the county’s whiter, more affluent neighborhoods — who were often able to keep highways out of their own backyards — commute to work through lower-income Black and Latino neighborhoods bisected by the 10, 110 and 105 freeways and more,” the story explains.

And so residents of these neighborhoods — Baldwin Hills, Compton, Inglewood, Watts, South Gate, Paramount, Huntington Park — breathe shittier air. Because of cavalier white racist commuters who think only of themselves.

Speaking as a former resident of West Hollywood who would occasionally drive on freeways through the crappy areas of Los Angeles, I am completely ashamed of myself. I didn’t mean to cause residents of color to develop breathing problems, but that’s what I wound up doing. Because I was a deplorable white person with a car, although I mostly drove a rumblehog.

If this was a Woody Allen film made in the early ’70s, it would end with men dressed in white uniforms chasing Roth down the street with huge mosquito nets and forcing him into a straightjacket.

John Scheinfeld‘s What The Hell Happened to Blood, Sweat & Tears? (Abramorama, 3.24) is not a biography of the band, and basically has zip to do with Al Kooper‘s version of it (late ’67 to late ’68).

It’s about the David Clayton Thomas incarnation (’69 to ’71), I’m told, and more particularly about “a moment in time when BS&T found itself in the crosshairs of a polarized America, as divided then as it is now. It really is a political thriller with great music in it, not a music doc.”

Another description: A doc about how Blood, Sweat & Tears was pressured into sacrificing their cred with a sector of their audience that considered itself hip and anti-establishment.

Wiki: “In May/June ’70 the jazz-fusion band went on a United States Department of State-sponsored tour of Eastern Europe. Voluntary association with the U.S. government was highly unpopular with New Lefty-influenced fans at the time, and BS&T was criticized for this. It is now known that the State Department subtly pressured the group into the tour in exchange for a U.S. residency permit to Clayton-Thomas, who had a criminal record in Canada and had been deported from the U.S. after overstaying his visa.”

The Soviet bloc tour was compounded by BS&T accepting a lucrative gig at Caesars Palace on the Las Vegas Strip — another extremely uncool thing to do at the time.

There’s actually a section of the doc in which Kooper appears (including a rare piece of audio from back in the day), but he’d left the band more than two years before the events depicted in the film.

The fanciful bond between Robert Blake and Scott Wilson has been pretty much carved in stone for decades, hence today’s reposting of a time-worn Wilson anecdote. I last mentioned it after Wilson passed on 10.6.18 at age 76.

Initially posted on 12.22.11: In the summer of ’81 I had a special Scott Wilson moment. It happened (or more precisely didn’t happen) in a hip West Hollywood dive bar on Santa Monica Blvd. (I can’t recall the name but it was between Sweetzer and Harper, and favored by actors at the time.) I was with a lady, and the first thing I noticed after entering the main room and ordering a drink was Wilson sitting at a table with a friend.

Wilson had played murderer Dick Hickock in the 1967 film version of In Cold Blood, and this was foremost on my mind. After mulling it over I told my girlfriend that I wanted to go over and get Wilson’s autograph and (this was crucial) ask him to write “hair on the walls” below his name.

The phrase came from Truman Capote‘s nonfiction novel and the film version of same. Prior to their late-night visit to the home of Kansas farmer Herb Clutter, Hickock promised his dark-spirited accomplice Perry Smith (Robert Blake) that no matter what happens “we’re gonna blast hair all over them walls.” I thought it might be ironically cool to persuade Wilson to acknowledge that.

But I wimped out, thinking he’d probably be offended. That was probably the right thing to do, but I’ve felt badly for years about this. The things that won’t leave you alone later in life are the ones you chickened out on.

Robert Blake, the brilliant veteran actor who wasn’t convicted of plotting to kill his wife, Bonny Lee Bakley, on 5.4.01, but whom many believe was guilty of complicity in the crime, died earlier today from heart disease in Los Angeles. He was 89 years old.

A belief in some quarters that Bakley was a fairly bad egg obviously doesn’t excuse or justify her unfortunate demise. Even the worst of us are entitled to live another day and maybe make things right. But prosecutors had no forensic evidence implicating Blake in the murder, and could not tie him to the murder weapon. Blake was found guilty, however, in a civil trial.

I somehow missed the fact that Quentin Tarantino‘s novel of “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood”, based on his film of the same name, is dedicated to Blake. Brad Pitt‘s Cliff Booth character is also accused of offing his wife.

A personal recollection posted on 3.17.05: “I used to tool around on a white Vespa scooter when I first came to Los Angeles in the early summer of ’83. One day in the late fall of ’83 it was stolen. I reported the loss to the cops right away, and a few hours later an officer called to say it had been found in Studio City. I was told where to go to pick it up (i.e., a location on the concrete L.A. river bed near Magnolia,

“I forget how I got there without wheels but somehow I did, and as I approached the location I saw two uniformed cops approaching from a couple of hundred yards away with a much shorter civilian walking between them. Closer, closer…who’s the pint-sized guy in the middle? It was Blake — he was the one who had spotted the abandoned scooter and made the call. I was introduced and thanked him profusely. Ever since I’ve felt a certain affection, a certain debt.”